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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29530758">Formally Invited</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/pseuds/kayisdreaming'>kayisdreaming</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Mild Language, minor depictions of violence, no actual ball scenes just some various scenes of Ingrid and Sylvain, sylvain-flavored pining</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:01:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,439</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29530758</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayisdreaming/pseuds/kayisdreaming</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the things one had to dread in the calm after war, a ball invitation shouldn’t have been high on that list. In most cases, that was still true. </p>
<p>But this was different. This was an invitation from Galatea. It wasn’t a celebration. It never was.</p>
<p>OR</p>
<p>Sylvain gets invited to a ball, considers whether or not he should go, and something gets in the way</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Formally Invited</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Of all the things one had to dread in the calm after war, a ball invitation shouldn’t have been high on that list. No, in fact it should have been a remedy, a balm to quickly heal any damage left lingering by bloody battles and costly victories. Every major event after the war was another chance to laugh in the face of death, joyously reveling in the fact that they had <em>survived</em>.</p>
<p>In most cases, that was still true. Sylvain relished every chance to leave Gautier. Every time his old schoolmates invited him to anything, he was away before his father could so much as raise a word in protest. There were a few exceptions, of course—certain seasons were entirely out of the question with inevitable Srengi attacks—but for the most part he made it his personal mission to attend every one. Even the most mundane celebration was welcomed with his full attention and energy. After all, the margraviate would be his personal shackle soon enough, and eventually the border would be his cage.</p>
<p>But this was different. This was an invitation from Galatea. It wasn’t a celebration. It never was.</p>
<p>It was coercion in colorful ball gowns and tailored suits.</p>
<p>He sighed, tossing the letter back onto his desk. He supposed this was inevitable. With a king and a more stable continent, Galatea finally had the chance to prosper again. Within a couple years of the war’s end, they had overcome their famine, allowing the people to focus on thriving, not just surviving.  </p>
<p>But Count Galatea, unfortunately, was not so easily distracted. The man wouldn’t expect that their prosperity would last. The land was fickle and alliances were temporary.  Marriage was the only reliable means of security, even when everything else eventually slipped through his fingers. After all, there was little chance multiple territories would endure the same ill fates—meaning the more fortunate one would be obliged to lend aid by the bonds of matrimony.</p>
<p>Sylvain knew because the margrave was of a similar opinion. He simply was far less subtle. Constantly, he insisted Sylvain choose a noblewoman in the capitol, or finally settle with one of Dimitri’s former generals, or even just ‘secure his legacy’ with whatever girl was unfortunate enough to garner his attention. If that man had any idea that Count Galatea was taking more aggressive measures, then certainly there would be little to quell his further ‘encouragement’ as well.</p>
<p>Sylvain’s only peace came whenever his father was at the border, getting his fill of Srengi blood while handling the occassional incursion there.</p>
<p>Now was one of those rare pleasant opportunities. His father had left a week ago. At a minimum, the manor was still Sylvain’s for another week. He could breathe in the space that the hollow glacier of a manor provided without his father’s presence.</p>
<p>But Ingrid, on the other hand, had no such luxury. Had no chance for peace.</p>
<p>He sighed, glancing back at the letter.</p>
<p>“Sir Gautier?” A maid’s voice rang like an alarm in a too-small room.</p>
<p>With a hum, he glanced over at the maid in his doorway. She’d been some entertainment for a few days, but it had barely gotten beyond idle flirtations before he’d gotten bored. It still didn’t stop her from blushing every time she glanced at him.</p>
<p>“Um,” her blush deepened as she looked away, “I am just surprised to see you still in the manor.”</p>
<p>Sylvain blinked. “I live here?”</p>
<p>“It’s not that, sir, it’s just,” she gripped her skirt so tightly it pressed a fold into the fabric, “the margrave mentioned you would be out.”</p>
<p>Sylvain frowned. His father had been fairly clear that he did not expect, nor desire, Sylvain on the front lines this time. The attack was minimal at best, and (even so) his father was paranoid about the entire bloodline being decimated in one fell swoop. Sure, he demanded Sylvain join him more often than not, but in many cases the Lance’s presence was sufficient.</p>
<p>Now the maid looked just as confused as him. “Did you not have arrangements in Galatea, sir?”</p>
<p>Ah. So that was the game. The old man was more concerned with continuing the legacy than ensuring one member of it survived. It would almost be a noble sacrifice, if it wasn’t so damn conniving.</p>
<p>He leaned back against his desk. So long as she didn’t see the letter, he could play stupid. “Not that I know of.”</p>
<p>He frowned as another servant walked past his office, only to turn around completely and take his place behind the maid. “You’re still here, sir?” The man said. “You will be late if you do not leave soon.”</p>
<p>“Late to what?” Sylvain tilted his head, sliding into the most charming smile he could manage. It was almost entirely foolproof with at least half the staff. Usually the newer ones.</p>
<p>Judging by the expression on the man’s face, he was unlucky enough to have been visited by one of the immune minority. “A ball for Lady Galatea, sir. I left the message on your desk this morning.”</p>
<p>“Oh, that.” Sylvain tried to hide his grimace. “Just read it. Figured I’m already too late. Wouldn’t make it to Galatea unless I leave right now and ride through the night.”</p>
<p>“Then I suggest you leave now, sir.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>The servant smiled, his very expression the epitome of a man too pleased with a job well done. “We already packed your bags. Ebony is equipped and ready to ride.”</p>
<p>Sylvain’s expression fell. “You’re joking.”</p>
<p>“Of course not, sir. The margrave already sent a response to Galatea before he left.”</p>
<p>The maid’s smile was just as bright. “He thought you might be late, so suggested we manage the arrangements for you.”</p>
<p>Of course he did. The bastard.</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>The ride to Galatea was distracting, to say the least.</p>
<p>First, he tried to think of the thousand ways to avoid the ball. If he was late, for instance, then there was hardly any point in going. He could step in the day after, give a hundred apologies, and be off to flirt and woo before he went back to Gautier.</p>
<p>In theory, that would be easy enough. A small snow storm in Gautier would force him to take refuge. Rain would cause enough mud that he wouldn’t risk his horse’s safety for a dance. Even wind, in the right conditions, could make him lose some of his belongings (perhaps his formal tunic?) and he’d be far too late by the time he chased it down.</p>
<p>But the weather was perfect.</p>
<p>Which meant Plan B. If he stumbled on a bandit camp, then he could certainly stall long enough to be late. He would only need some evidence of a battle, maybe some weapons or gear that Galatea would recognize, and he’d be forgiven easily. All he had to do was take one of the less-traveled roads—one many used to avoid if they wished their belongings intact.</p>
<p>But the road was as quiet and pleasant as any other. The increased peace and prosperity under Dimitri’s reign tended to eliminate the need for bandits.</p>
<p>Realistically, he could have found any distraction. Could have pretended he got lost and took the wrong road, or his horse lost a horseshoe, or anything like that.</p>
<p>But the truth was that he couldn’t do that to Ingrid.</p>
<p>He knew that her father would use their relationship and history against her. Sylvain was the only person who wasn’t a threat to Ingrid, who had little to gain from trying to marry her. Logically, Sylvain was a source of safety; he was no doubt her father’s peace offering so she might find solace among a room full of sharks. And if that didn’t work, the count had probably reminded her of Sylvain’s habits, threatening that the redhead would become a menace with no one there to rein him in. Perhaps he’d woo the wrong person, and wind up with a blade in the belly.</p>
<p>Ingrid was noble enough to attend for Sylvain’s sake.</p>
<p>And if he didn’t attend, then he was abandoning her. He was leaving her to fight against the monstrosity of expectations alone, left without the armor that his presence could have provided. He’d be letting her fight alone, struggling until her stamina was no more. In the worst case, she could possibly give in, and wind up stuck in an arrangement she’d hate forevermore.</p>
<p>There was, technically, an easy solution to all of this. He’d considered it before, when the battles had been harsh and the nights restless. After all, it was kind of sensible, if he thought about it.</p>
<p>Both of their most irritating problems—their fathers—would quiet immediately once a ring was on their fingers. And they both had their own dreams they wanted to pursue, which meant that they wouldn’t be forcing unrealistic expectations on each other. Both were also the last Crest-bearing heir in their families, meaning there was a good chance no one would raise any fuss if they didn’t have any kids for a little while—too busy with the duties associated with their Crests.</p>
<p>But that in itself was still a problem. The moment they were married, Ingrid would no longer be seen as a knight. She’d become the wife, the mother. Even if he encouraged her freedom, few others would allow it. She’d just be replacing one shackle with another.</p>
<p>The bigger problem was that she would be living with him and he wasn’t sure if he could manage that <em>without </em>falling in love with her. Hell, when he thought too hard about the possibilities of their arrangement, he already felt that tell-tale tightness in his chest. It was too easy to think of the way her cheeks flushed slightly whenever she was yelling at him, making her eyes sparkle all the more like the finest jewels in the land. Or the way she threw herself into her work whole-heartedly, constantly evaluating and reevaluating herself to find the best way to protect others. Or maybe it was the way her persistent training and determination showed in her every strike on the battlefield, soaring through the sky as if it were a dance.</p>
<p><em>Okay</em>, maybe he already had fallen in love with her. That was <em>fine</em>. He could pretend it didn’t exist. But even so, that couldn’t negate the last—and perhaps biggest—problem with his plan.</p>
<p>And that was that he was Sylvain Gautier. Sylvain, the man who’d ruined a thousand reputations, who would tarnish anyone he even momentarily attached himself to. The quality of Ingrid’s character would always be questioned, regardless of what she did. Regardless of his habits, she’d still be seen as the one stupid enough to think her marriage with Sylvain would mean anything. Perhaps worse, she’d be seen as another Crest-chasing, status-seeking girl who had no real value or self-respect.</p>
<p>Worse, even if he was the most gallant, chivalrous, and stunning knight in the world, he was still a <em>Gautier</em>. Gautier, the most inhospitable, harsh, and cruel land on the continent. War never ended there, and peace was never really more than a momentary indulgence. And even if he did get to fight for her—and he let her enjoy the most freedom she’d had in forever—it wouldn’t be a blessing. She’d still be looked down upon if she did <em>anything</em> other than provide Gautier with the Crest-bearing, warrior brood that the land demanded.</p>
<p>She deserved better than both Sylvain and Gautier.</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>The sun was midway through the sky by the time he arrived in Galatea. The earth had warmed considerably, but it still wasn’t enough to ease away the chill that had settled in overnight. More prominently, though, he was tired. Riding was normally effortless, even more so with the mare that had been his companion since he was a teenager. But his wandering mind had worked against him, making him ride like a distracted learner, leaving him exhausted both physically and mentally.</p>
<p>It would be fine. The ball wasn’t until the evening, meaning he could probably take a nap before anyone noticed he was here. If he shifted enough hay, it could work as a temporary bed. No one would look for him, no one would even think of it if they even walked by.</p>
<p>Ebony nosed at his shoulder as he led her into the stable and into an open stall.</p>
<p>“We’ll ask Ingrid to let us stay an extra day.” He said, pressing a kiss to her nose. “She won’t complain if I say it’s for your sake.”</p>
<p>“Oh, <em>won’t </em>I?” Ingrid said, her tone that perfect balance between scolding and playful. She stepped up to Ebony, smiling as the horse ignored her master for her favorite caretaker. Her hand gently brushed over Ebony’s flank, touch gentle and sweet. “Rude, isn’t he? Using you as an excuse.”</p>
<p>Sylvain rolled his eyes, removing the brindle and saddle while Ingrid doted on his horse. “I don’t think she minds as much as you think she does.”</p>
<p>Ingrid was surprisingly quiet. His horse wasn’t of course, snorting softly at each new kind of affection. Sylvain took the opportunity to organize his things, hanging the bundle in his arms and his satchel off one of the hooks along the stable wall.</p>
<p>With a sigh, he began digging through his bag, curious at what his staff thought might be necessary.</p>
<p>“I didn’t know you were coming.” Ingrid said, her voice so soft that Sylvain could barely hear it over his own breathing.</p>
<p>He sighed. “Neither did I.”</p>
<p>“. . . oh.”</p>
<p>Sylvain found himself tensing on instinct. There was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice. She didn’t even sound like that when he had done something she had explicitly told him not to. Nor when he couldn’t keep up for even half the time she did in the training grounds.  Or a million other situations where he’d been a disappointment—none of them sounded half as borderline despairing as that single ‘oh’.</p>
<p>He inhaled slowly. He was here to make things better, not worse.</p>
<p>He glanced over his shoulder and smiled his best smile. “You don’t hear me complaining. I missed you.”</p>
<p>Her eyes widened, cheeks dusting pink as her eyebrows knitted together. Her lips curled like she was about to yell at him until he died of old age.</p>
<p>Ok, so too far. He needed a distraction—something to cut off her fury before it was unleashed. He cleared his throat. Well, there was always the most obvious route. “You’re growing your hair out?”</p>
<p>Her hand immediately went to her hair, fingers curling into the strands that brushed over her shoulders. She glanced away, her expression uneasy and uncertain. “I haven’t had the time to cut it.”</p>
<p>That was a blatant lie, if he’d ever heard one. Without war, they had nothing <em>but </em>time, even in Galatea. All she had to do was take a pair of scissors, and she would be free.</p>
<p>No doubt her father had been the only obstacle. Sylvain was well aware that the man thought her shorter hair wasn’t feminine enough, that it would make her unappealing to husbands. Plus, short hair gave her too much freedom—it made it easier for her to fight, to trounce anyone who stood in her way. The count probably hoped that longer hair would burden her enough to fall into a more desirable role.</p>
<p>But there was an easy way around that, too.</p>
<p>“I need to shave.” He said, running his thumb over the stubble along his jaw. “If you stick around, I might accidentally cut your hair, too.”</p>
<p>Ingrid gaped like his idea was so stupid that she almost couldn’t comprehend it. But that was temporary—so quickly, it dissolved into laughter. She tried to hide it behind her hand, but it was like trying to block out the sun with a piece of paper. It was impossible to hide its glory and warmth, no matter how hard one tried.</p>
<p>Smiling, he searched for a pouch in his bag. It was a small thing—just enough to hold a razor, a mirror, and a bar of soap. The rest of his setup would require some creativity on his part. But he was used to Galatea’s stables—he could manage.</p>
<p>And his setup wasn’t awful. The mirror was balanced on a haybale, sinking into the straw far more frequently than it sat perched upon the top. Part of it was due to the bucket he had chosen—one of the sides was unstable, constantly rocking as he dipped his hands into the cold water. Every time he dipped to lather the soap (dry from spending too long balancing the mirror), his bucket ran into the haybale and the struggle started all over.</p>
<p>He cursed as he dropped his soap into the water.</p>
<p>Ingrid sighed, watching from her perch against a nearby stall. “Would you like some help?”</p>
<p>“I’m . . . fine.” He muttered. So far, he’d managed to shave his upper lip. This was not going well.</p>
<p>She snorted, snatching the razor from his hand. She shifted the mirror as she sat on the haybale. “Hands to yourself.” She whispered, fingertips brushing along his jaw to urge him to tilt his head.</p>
<p>He hummed, eyes falling shut. “I wouldn’t dream of angering the woman with a razor.”</p>
<p>She chuckled, the movement of the blade slow and precise. “That hadn’t stopped you before.”</p>
<p>No, it certainly hadn’t. Long battles against Adrestians had left him without any fear of death or harm. It wasn’t a boldness—nor the thoughts of a man who thought himself invincible—just an ambivalence. Fighting and killing made him feel hollow, empty. Teasing Ingrid in the few moments they could be close, blade or not, made him feel again. If he could instigate that feeling with an idle thumb brushing along her calf, then so be it.</p>
<p>Besides, he only earned one or two nicks that way.</p>
<p>He sighed contentedly as her fingers brushed across his skin, everything efficient and yet so, so gentle. It was a pampering he forgot he craved.</p>
<p>“That’s better.” Ingrid said, dipping her sleeve into the water and wiping the lingering soap off his face.</p>
<p>Slowly, Sylvain ran his hand over his face. She’d done a good job. Everywhere was smooth and perfect, the hairs once again culled to their proper form.</p>
<p>“I wish you did this all the time.” He hummed, taking the blade from her hand and wiping it. “You’re way better than me.”</p>
<p>Her lips curled into a frown once more. “It’s <em>your </em>face, Sylvain. Have some pride in it.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I <em>do</em>.”</p>
<p>She rolled her eyes.</p>
<p>Laughing, he wiped his blade against the hay, getting the remaining remnants with the hem of his shirt. With a hum, he raised a single brow. “So, was that a ‘no’ earlier?”</p>
<p>Her jaw clenched as she chewed at the inside of her cheek.</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>Sylvain smiled, his fingers running through Ingrid’s golden locks. There was really only so long he could pretend that he was doing it to make sure the cut was even. Only so long that he could pretend it was absolutely necessary that he let those soft strands run over his fingers.</p>
<p>He’d just have to commit it to memory.</p>
<p>“Take a look.” He said, picking up his mirror and facing it toward her.</p>
<p>It was, perhaps, only a tad shorter than it had been during the war. It wasn’t too short to braid—not by anyone experienced, anyway—but it was certainly noticeable. He almost felt guilty that she wouldn’t be able to hide it.</p>
<p>He wouldn’t voice it, but he preferred it like this. He preferred that pleased smile on her face even more.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Sylvain.” She said, still absorbed in her reflection as her fingers ran through her hair.</p>
<p>He smiled, folding his blade and returning his things back to his bag. “You need a haircut, you find me.” He said, voice light as he returned back to the stable and to his saddlebag. “I’ll even make it shorter next time, if you wanted.”</p>
<p>The pink returned to her cheeks once more. Her gaze shot downward, down to the hairs that were scattered around her feet. “You don’t think it’s . . .”</p>
<p>“I think it suits you.” He said, even surprised at the sincerity in his own voice. He tried to diminish it by rummaging in his satchel. Deflection. He needed a deflection. “Anything would look good on a beauty like you. Wonderful, even. Awe-inspiring.”</p>
<p>She groaned. “Sylvain, I was being serious.”</p>
<p>So was he. He licked his lips, his thumb running over the clasp on his bag. “So was I. About the cut, anyway.” He cleared his throat. “It looks . . . good.”</p>
<p>“Thank you.”</p>
<p>“Any time.” He glanced over his shoulder and grinned. She looked more at ease now. Good. “I’ll compliment you whenever you want. Even when you don’t want it.”</p>
<p>“<em>Sylvain</em>.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t mean that. I meant—” She exhaled sharply. “For doing this. For being here. I . . .” Her smile seemed fragile. “I’m not sure I could have endured this without you.”</p>
<p>He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “It’s . . .” he cleared his throat again. Licking his lips didn’t help either. “It’s a knight’s duty to help someone in need, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“Well, yes, but . . .” he could feel her weight shift. “But . . .”</p>
<p>“Lady Galatea!” A shrill voice shattered through the atmosphere, making Sylvain twitch. Hurried steps crunched through the hay scattered across the stable floors, wooden doors swinging and slamming against the walls. “Lady Galatea! We were looking for you everywhere!”</p>
<p>With a sigh, Sylvain leaned against the railing to the stall, watching as one of the maids hurried in. Her face was flushed, like she’d been running around the entire estate in her desperate search.</p>
<p>Ingrid was red for an entirely different reason. Annoyance, most likely, in that even her sanctuary wasn’t safe.</p>
<p>The maid stopped right in front of Ingrid, seemingly oblivious to Sylvain’s presence as she offered a rather poor imitation of a curtsy.</p>
<p>“I wasn’t hiding.” Ingrid sighed, crossing her arms in front of her. “I told my father I would get ready when my chores were complete.</p>
<p>“I understand your position, my lady, but we insist you leave such things to—” the maid blinked, her entire face going pale, “Lady Galatea, your hair!”</p>
<p>Ingrid’s cheeks flushed deeper, hand immediately going to her shorn locks.</p>
<p>“What happened? Oh—how could you just—why would you—”</p>
<p>“It’s my fault.” Sylvain said, tone smooth and level.</p>
<p>The maid startled, her eyes wide. “S-sir Gautier!”</p>
<p>“I was moving my things and wasn’t paying attention. Guess we should consider ourselves lucky that I only cut her hair.” He let a sweet smile slide onto his lips.</p>
<p>The maid’s fingers curled into her skirts, as if that could hide the growing blush on her cheeks. While the staff at the Gautier manor were so accustomed to Sylvain’s habits that they had to become immune or lose their jobs, it was clear the Galatea staff were not so fortunate.</p>
<p> “I know it’s common to have it up for parties,” he continued, leaning a bit over the stall and just a hair closer to the maid, “but I think curls are just as proper. And you don’t have to worry about being late.”</p>
<p>The maid licked her lips, teeth worrying at the lower one. “T-the count was clear . . .”</p>
<p>Ingrid’s voice was low in warning. “Sylvain . . .”</p>
<p>“How about as a favor?” He said, voice as sweet as syrup. “For me?”</p>
<p>She swallowed. “I suppose he can’t complain if you requested it.”</p>
<p>Oh, he could. He definitely could. He’d probably find some indirect way to make Sylvain pay for it, too. “I appreciate it.”</p>
<p>He glanced over. Whatever annoyance the situation had caused Ingrid was immediately replaced by a direct fury at him.</p>
<p>“Now why don’t you head back to her room?” He offered, trying to ignore the glare burning into his head. “Curls won’t take any time at all, so I think there’s plenty of time to let Ingrid handle her chores, right?”</p>
<p>“Yes . . . that’s fair.” The maid nodded, before offering one last curtsy to Ingrid. “Please hurry, my lady. We have more time, but I would not wish to rush it.”</p>
<p>Ingrid hummed an acknowledgement. When it was clear the maid wasn’t going to be offered anything else, she hurried out of the room, letting the wooden stable doors slam shut behind her.</p>
<p>Sylvain exhaled slowly. “Listen, Ingrid—”</p>
<p>“<em>Never</em> do that again.” Ingrid’s voice was so low that it was nearly a growl.</p>
<p>“I was just—”</p>
<p>“I <em>don’t </em>need you speaking for me.” Her lip curled, finger jabbing at his chest. “I don’t <em>want </em>you making choices for me.”</p>
<p>He opened his mouth to protest, but it died on his tongue.</p>
<p>He could understand her frustration. Every day, her father tried to dictate the path in front of her. Tried to tell her that she needed to give up on being a knight, needed to abandon her hobbies, needed to let everything but marriage fall to the wayside. She had enough of people telling her what to do—and it was worse for Sylvain to be among the numbers of those who tried.</p>
<p>In the same way, his hypocrisy was likely just as infuriating. In one moment, he was telling her he liked her the way she was—in another, he was making plans for her appearance without her. Acting like her husband even if he knew it was the very last thing she would ever choose.</p>
<p>He had only wanted to give her a bit longer to enjoy her peace away from the demands and expectations of a party she never wanted. But he wasn’t saving her if he went about it the wrong way.</p>
<p>He sighed. “I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.” His lip quirked at a thought that slid its way onto his tongue before he could stop it. “Or—”</p>
<p>Her glare sharpened.</p>
<p>“Or I only do it when you tell me to.” He said, the idea sounding less and less stupid the more he spoke. “If no one’s gonna listen to you, use me as your own personal messenger. Here for you to use however you wish.”</p>
<p>Something behind that glare broke. It lingered—but it was weak, fragile. Slowly, her lip quirked. A smile slid onto her face, and finally—<em>finally—</em>she hid a laugh behind her hand.</p>
<p>“Sylvain,” she shook her head, glancing up at him, “that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Even from <em>you</em>.”</p>
<p>Sylvain grinned. “What’s ridiculous is that I offered for you to use me as you wish, and you <em>laugh</em>.”</p>
<p>That made her laugh just a bit harder, the noise so sweet and delightful that even Sylvain couldn’t resist a painfully sincere smile. In their youth, she would have dragged him out by his ear for such poor phrasing, scolding him for acting the fool. That such antics could make her laugh was a blessing, even if it was only his own private one.</p>
<p>Ingrid shook her head, clearing her throat to calm her own laughter. “Sylvain—"</p>
<p>The stable doors slammed open once more. “Pardon me, Lady Galatea,” the male voice was just as urgent as the maid’s had been earlier, “but this is important.”</p>
<p>Ingrid groaned. “If my father is—”</p>
<p>“It’s an urgent missive from Gautier.” The man—a guard, Sylvain realized—strode quickly across the stable, bypassing Ingrid completely. He barely stood in front of Sylvain for a second before he was shoving a letter into his hands. “I was informed it must be read immediately. Excuse me. I need inform the count as well.”</p>
<p>The man stepped away and bowed before just as quickly hurrying out of the stable.</p>
<p>Sylvain swallowed, looking down at the letter in his hands. Nothing was on the white envelope—no address, no name, nothing. It had been crinkled by a likely hasty journey, finger presses clear in the paper. But that was normal—messages hardly ever came out of Gautier unless they were important. More distressingly, though, was the fact that it was delivered ‘<em>from Gautier</em>’, not from the margrave, or from the council. There were only two possible reasons why.</p>
<p>Either his father was dead, or he was going to be.</p>
<p>Ingrid’s hand settled on his shoulder. “Sylvain,” she said, voice soft, “do you need me to open it for you?”</p>
<p>He shook his head. Ingrid had enough to worry about—she didn’t need to add his concerns to her pile. “I’m not that incompetent.” He muttered, though his body lacked the energy to make it sound jovial.</p>
<p>He slid his thumb beneath one of the folded edges, the sound of ripping paper far too loud in a now silent room. It was hard to get the papers straight enough to read with the slight tremble of his fingers, but he could manage.</p>
<p>His eyes scanned over the page, then once more in case he misread.</p>
<p>“I need to head back home.” He said, crunching the paper in his hands.</p>
<p>Her fingers curled into his sleeve. “What happened?”</p>
<p>“Border skirmish.” He said, pulling away to begin to stuff his things into his satchel. “The men took unexpected losses. I need to get back home so we don’t have more.”</p>
<p>“Your father,” her breath caught as she definitely saw him twitch, “is he . . .?”</p>
<p>He exhaled slowly, fingers stilling in their work. It was bad, but it could have been <em>worse</em>. He should have seen this as a blessing. “He got hurt, so he can’t fight at the front lines.” He glanced over his shoulder, offering her a weak smile. “I take care of this, and I’ll get to be irresponsible a bit longer.”</p>
<p>He could see the tension from her shoulders disappear. He couldn’t blame her—he doubted anyone thought that Sylvain as the margrave would ever inspire confidence.</p>
<p>He latched his saddlebag shut. “Looks like you’ll have to save a dance for me next time.”</p>
<p>“Sylvain.” She inhaled slowly, stepping into the stall with him. “Do you need help?”</p>
<p>A part of him wanted to say yes. Before, there had been something inherently comforting in knowing he had someone who would always watch his back. There had been something motivating in fighting even harder so he could keep her safe.</p>
<p>It was different now, after the war. It was hard to put all of his energy into the battle when he was the only one he had to protect. He’d mitigated it thus far by being determined to protect his men—but there was hardly any guarantee that any of them would still be alive by the time he returned to Gautier.</p>
<p>But that meant it was risky. It meant there was a good possibility that only the two of them would be out on the battlefield. And—even if he fought to protect her till his dying breath—there was a good chance he’d be bringing her to her own death. Hell’s flames wouldn’t torment him as badly as that would.</p>
<p>“Your father would have my head for kidnapping you.” He said, grabbing his saddle in his arms. Oh, his horse was certainly going to throw him for this.</p>
<p>“What if—”</p>
<p>“It’s probably not that bad, you know.” He said, shaking his head. “My old man is getting on in years. I’d be surprised if Sreng <em>didn’t</em> get a good hit in.”</p>
<p>Ingrid was quiet.</p>
<p>“I’ll be fine.” He insisted, frowning as his horse stepped away from him. “I’ve fought out there a hundred times. There’s nothing to worry about.”</p>
<p>“Fine.” She sighed. “At least take my horse so you get there safe.”</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>“Go on.” Sylvain urged, his breaths heavy. His hands pressed against the horse’s saddlebag, where he could feel the soft beveling of the letter within. “Go home.”</p>
<p>Ingrid’s horse snorted, but it was far more obedient than his had ever been. It turned, well out of his sight before he could change his mind.</p>
<p>Maybe it was dumb. Maybe there was no reason to send a letter to Ingrid—but his mind wouldn’t allow otherwise. It practically forced him to scribble out words on a page, if only to ease the thoughts swirling in his mind as he raced back to Gautier.</p>
<p>His mind kept wandering to strange men twirling her around the dance floor, or making her smile and laugh, or kissing her hand like they had any right to. Too easily he thought of them talking to her, getting far better at dealing with her obstinance against marriage with every passing ball. Perhaps they’d be offering her fine foods, or praise her lancework, or maybe even find something to compliment that wasn’t the inevitable compliment on her good looks. Eventually, without him there to serve at least as a reminder that their sentiments were shallow and their hopes selfish, she <em>might </em>give in.</p>
<p> If he didn’t think of other things, if he didn’t promise his mind an eventual release, instead he’d think of <em>that</em>. And it would get him killed.</p>
<p>He’d penned the letter while he let her horse drink at a nearby river, hoping the poor thing would be able to catch its breath in the short reprieve. And he hoped, perhaps, that his own mind would let him rest as well.  </p>
<p>It was comprised of things he knew she’d see as nonsense. Things she’d probably thought he said to a hundred girls in a thousand different ways. Words of affection and endearment, of fates entwined and hearts inseparable.</p>
<p>But he hadn’t—not those. Those words were too heavy, too meaningful.</p>
<p>At the end, an apology.</p>
<p><em>‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you</em>.’ He’d written. ‘<em>If I had any choice, I’d never leave your side</em>.’</p>
<p>He’d folded the paper before he could think better of it, shoved it into the satchel as he mounted her horse to continue on his way. He’d figured he could burn it later. Thought it wouldn’t matter so long as his mind was free.</p>
<p>Now, though, those hasty words would likely be his final testament. And he couldn’t forgive himself if he died and she never knew. It was mean, it was selfish. It was so utterly Sylvain that he was sure she’d forgive him, eventually. It was just him living up to her expectations, after all. One more burden he placed upon her.</p>
<p>He exhaled slowly, swallowing hard to try and distract himself from the pain radiating in his side and leg. The initial damage had been easily ignored, nothing compared to the way magic burned through his veins with each cast. Now, though, it was impossible to push away—it made acid burn in the back of his throat, every throb another nudge toward uncontrollable illness.</p>
<p>The damage was bad. He didn’t need to look at the state of his armor to know that much. Already, his moves were getting sluggish, body not as responsive as he was accustomed to. Already, his vision was occassionally blurring at the edges—soon, he wouldn’t be able to blink himself back to focus.</p>
<p>He could only tell a soldier was charging him by the pitch of the shout, by the vague shape that got larger as the scream grew louder. With a grimace, he swung his Lance, watching as the shape crumpled to the ground.</p>
<p>He didn’t have to kill them all; he couldn’t if he wanted to. It just had to be enough. Just enough for the border villages to be able to handle the force on their own. Enough for Sreng to be deterred once more. Enough to feel like he hadn’t died for nothing.</p>
<p>The world seemed to move too fast beneath his feet, and he lurched forward. Barely—just barely—he caught himself with the Lance. The pommel dug into the snow, carving deep as he leaned more of his weight against it. He struggled, but he couldn’t get himself upright—his leg burned like it was on fire (and he didn’t want to look to confirm that it <em>wasn’t</em>).</p>
<p>He could get one more of them, probably. After that—</p>
<p>Something thudded against his armor, the crisp sound of metal-on-metal ringing in his ears. He barely caught the sight of fletching sticking out of his shoulder before his grip slipped. Any stability he had disappeared entirely, and he crumbled like a statue built on sand.</p>
<p>He hit the ground hard, barely spared by an extended arm. The arrow in his shoulder dug in deeper, setting every nerve alight as he gasped for air.</p>
<p>Everything hurt, but a sudden realization hurt more. There was no escape. No way to survive. An icy hilltop was his grave, likely to be left unmarked and utterly indistinguishable from the landscape around him. Maybe someone would try to find him—maybe even Ingrid—but they’d eventually forget. They’d eventually give up.</p>
<p>Eventually, Ingrid would find someone to marry. Eventually, she’d have a family and kids. Eventually, she’d forget Sylvain Gautier ever existed.</p>
<p>A fragile smile lingered on his lips as he glanced up at an approaching figure, ax shimmering as if it was eager for his blood.</p>
<p>Maybe it would be best if she <em>did</em> forget.</p>
<p>A shout echoed through the mountains like it was the battle cry of a goddess of war. It curled around Sylvain like a balm, so familiar and so welcoming that he wondered if he had already died.</p>
<p>But he knew the shape zipping through the sky as if it was effortless. He knew the glorious display of pegasus and rider, and he knew <em>this </em>one in particular. He knew the way her lance sliced through enemies as easily as she would cut through air.</p>
<p>He wanted to get up and help, but he could barely keep his head up enough to watch her. Even that, in time, ended in failure. His head dipped down as his arms trembled beneath him, threatening to shove his face against the snow.</p>
<p>But he could tell from hearing. He could still hear her battle cries and her heavy strikes through armor. He could make out the sounds of their retreat. He could tell her pegasus had landed somewhere nearby.</p>
<p>And he knew the crunch of snow beneath her boots as she came nearer. Each step was slow, delicate, like she was afraid of what she’d find. Like she thought he was already dead.</p>
<p>Maybe he was. Maybe he just got to enjoy this last moment before he was dragged into hell with the rest of his regrets.</p>
<p>Well, if he was going to go that way, then he would make the most of his last moments. He glanced up, smiling.</p>
<p>Ingrid’s cheeks were flushed pink, breath coming out in soft puffs of fog. Her eyes were bright like they always were after a battle, when the adrenaline hadn’t yet died down. He knew it was a trick of the sun playing on her hair, but light shone behind her head like a divine halo. She looked like a goddess all the same.</p>
<p>Her fingers carded into his fringe, touch soft as if she wasn’t sure he was hurt there. Considering how the strands stuck together, it was entirely possible he was. Not that he cared—he could only focus on the sweet touch, as heavenly as anything he’d ever experienced in his life.</p>
<p>“Are you alright?” Ingrid’s fingers shifted from his scalp to cup his cheek, tilting his head just a bit more. Her gaze flicked across his face, like she was desperately searching for <em>something </em>in his eyes. “Sylvain?”</p>
<p>He hummed softly. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, but he was sure he could get it to cooperate. “Better with a beautiful woman here.”</p>
<p>She scoffed, but she didn’t scold him. Instead, she reached into her bag, pulling out a small vial of purple liquid. She uncorked it with her teeth (which he certainly would have commented on if he had the sensibility to), quickly bringing the bottle to his lips. “Drink.”</p>
<p>He obeyed without question, grimacing at the bitterness on his lips. It didn’t bring any clarity to his head, but it did slightly dull the painful throbbing of his more severe wounds. At least it was enough that he could be certain that he wasn’t yet dead. Probably.</p>
<p>“Can you stand?” She asked, voice uncharacteristically soft.</p>
<p>He’d expected her to yell at him, to order him to pull himself back together. Maybe to remind him that this was <em>his </em>fault for being lazy. Not . . . whatever this was. It made him feel more uncertain and vulnerable than he’d have liked. “For you? Anything.”</p>
<p>“Sylvain . . .”</p>
<p>He curled his leg beneath him, jaw clenching at the stabbing pain. He dug his foot into the dirt. One go, and he could get upright. Anything after that would be a problem for future him.</p>
<p>He jolted up in one go, grinning down at her like he hadn’t a care in the world.</p>
<p>Then his body reminded him why he was a fool.</p>
<p>Dizziness overcame him as agony shot through him like a Thoron to the chest. His knees buckled beneath him, and he crumpled once more.</p>
<p>But he didn’t hit the floor—not this time. His body fell against Ingrid’s, her shoulder jammed beneath his arm to keep him upright. She was far faster than he’d thought her capable of. Sturdier than he could ever have imagined, considering their differences in weight and height.</p>
<p>“I need to get you home.” She sighed, a hand pressing against his breastplate. She frowned as his blood stained her gloves. No, frown was wrong. Her <em>lips </em>were frowning, but there was something else in her expression that he couldn’t name. Something that made her voice seemed strained with her every word. “And to a healer.”</p>
<p>She whistled, the sound echoing through the trees.</p>
<p>~</p>
<p>Sylvain blinked. He wasn’t sure when he’d passed out, but he certainly couldn’t remember being on a horse when he was last awake. But he knew the feel, had been familiar with the sensation of riding since before he could properly walk.</p>
<p>He <em>had </em>to have been awake, though. It was impossible for it to be anything otherwise. There was no way Ingrid could have lifted him up on her own—not with him still sitting up, anyway.</p>
<p>His lips pressed together as he considered that. Even if he was awake and somehow not conscious, there was no way he wouldn’t fall off his horse. He’d tumble over at the first bump, or at the first time the horse decided to shift even slightly in the wrong direction.</p>
<p>Slowly, he became aware of the pressure against his back, the warmth at his sides. He could feel the slightest pressure of a chin hooked over his good shoulder, feel the soft shift of his hair with quiet breaths.</p>
<p>He glanced over, to where her pegasus walked alongside the horse. The saddle was empty.</p>
<p>Ah, so she was why he hadn’t fallen. Ingrid had been holding onto him like a parent first teaching their child to ride, settling behind him so he wouldn’t fall.</p>
<p>He huffed a laugh, the sound more like an exhale than a chuckle. “I think you took the wrong path to the ball.” His voice seemed far quieter than he was used to—but by her twitch he could tell that she heard it. “You’re totally lost.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t go.” Ingrid sighed, her hold on him firming just slightly. “I had a bad feeling about this, so I snuck out.”</p>
<p>He smiled. “I’m supposed to be the only one who misbehaves.”</p>
<p>“Sylvain . . .”</p>
<p>“Your father will think I’ve rubbed off on you.”</p>
<p>He could hear the small <em>thunk</em> as she pressed her forehead to his shoulder. “I wasn’t going to lose you for a stupid ball.”</p>
<p>“Truly my knight in shining armor.” He muttered, eyes falling upon the silhouette of the Gautier manor in the distance. “Makes it hard not to love you.”</p>
<p>He could feel her stiffen behind him. “Did you hit your head, too?”</p>
<p>“Mm,” he shook his head, “don’t think so.”</p>
<p>She sighed a shaky exhale, her chin falling back into place and one hand releasing the reins so she could wrap an arm around him. “We’ll talk later.” She whispered, voice so soft and sweet that he still wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t died. “For now, rest. I’ll take care of you.”</p>
<p>He smiled, eyes closing as he began to drift off. The steady movement was too much like a cradle, her breaths a lullaby. Yeah, he could do that.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>As always, please feel free to reach out to me on Twitter!  <a href="https://twitter.com/kayisdreaming">@kayisdreaming </a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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